I’ve had a few people asking me when the next charity shop post is appearing and to them I say,

“Stop whining bitches, it’ll be done when it’s done.”

Then I cock an eyebrow like Samuel L Jackson and mime pointing a gun at you like a boss.

Truth is, I’m moving house. Yeah that’s right. Trial by disorder. I’m doing it slowly, one ludicrously complicated thing at a time, between fits of staring into space, slack jawed. I’m no good at this. I need someone to take over, preferably completely and utterly. What use our mere human bodies if we have not yet evolved a button to press on our foreheads to bring neatness and order into our chaotic minds?

Although to be fair if we’d advanced that far I’d expect to be able to teleport to my new house in a capsule with uniformed apes loading my futuristic furniture onto the back of a hover lorry.

LOOK I’M LOSING MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT HERE.

So, I’m moving. I have had little time – and let’s face it, money – to spend in the charity shops these last few weeks so you’ll just have to knock a quick one out over these like I did earlier.

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This is the Tammy annual. I used to love this, and Bunty. Tales of orphaned but gifted children, mysterious benefactors, kindly yet borderline child molesting uncles, and lashings and lashings of boarding school japes. Nostalgia, £2.99.

wpid-20130304_135954.jpgIt also contains this story, ‘The Understudy’ which appears to be about a Dickensian racist puppeteer.

An otter I saw the other day. He was good.

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Soup cup with two handles in fine bone china by Royal Doulton with matching saucer which makes you look like you’ve been instagrammed to heck and back in real life even if you haven’t. Lovely chai. Here is the recipe.

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